“How did you get my number?” she interrupts, but her voice is soft, not angry. “My dad?”
“No. A friend of mine tracked it down.”
There’s an awkward pause on both our ends.
“I won’t keep you long,” I tell her. “I just had something to say to you. Something I never got to say back then because your dad pulled you out of school.” I exhale in a rush. “I’m sorry.”
She exhales too, sharply.
“I’m sorry for everything that went down between us,” I continue. “For the part I played in your…uh…”
“Breakdown?” she finishes wryly. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. I was dealing with depression long before we went out.”
“I know. But…we had sex…and afterward…” Jesus, this is uncomfortable. And this whole conversation feels…clinical. Like we’re strangers discussing someone else’s sex life instead of our own.
“We had sex because I seduced you when you were drunk.” She sounds deeply ashamed. “And then I tried to guilt you into staying together when I knew you weren’t happy with me. You have no idea how guilty I felt about it afterward. I wanted to call you, but I was too embarrassed. And my dad told me he’d ship me to Siberia if I ever spoke to you again. So I said nothing. I figured you’d forget about me eventually.” There’s a pause. “Obviously you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Another pause.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m sorry if I did or said anything to contribute to what you were going through, or to exacerbate it. I never meant to hurt you.”
“I never meant to hurt you either.”
I gulp. “So…you’re doing okay now? Graduating from Duke this spring, huh?”
“Yes!” Excitement echoes over the line. “And I got into med school!”
The news startles me, because she always talked about wanting to be a social worker, not a doctor. I guess people change, though. God knows I have. We spend a few brief minutes catching up, and I’m relieved when the call ends. Miranda was an important chapter in my life, but it feels good to close it.
MIRANDA O’SHEA ✓
I didn’t bother adding Miranda’s father to my list. No amount of apologizing will make that bastard like me, and truth be told, I don’t owe him any more apologies. The only crime I’m guilty of is breaking up with his daughter. I didn’t deserve to be punched in the face and treated like dirt for it.
Frank can work through his issues on his own.
I’m working through mine.
*
Another week passes. Allie is still doing Allie. I’m still doing me. We’ve texted a few times, just brief how-ya-doings and not much else. I’m dying to see her. Hold her. Kiss her. Make love to her. But I promised to be patient, so I keep my distance.
I do, however, poke Hannah for information every chance I get. I know that Allie aced her screenwriting course. I know she got her nails done at the salon in town. Bright green, Wellsy had revealed, and it made me smile.
The next time I pester her for an update, Hannah reveals that Allie flew to LA. My heart immediately drops, because I think she left for good, but Hannah is quick to reassure me. Turns out the people at Fox wanted Allie to come in and read for them in person. They’d loved her audition tape, but wanted to test her chemistry with the two actresses she’d be working with.
My heart damn near explodes with pride when I hear that, and I send her a congratulatory text. I don’t hear back from her until several hours later. She says she’s about to board the flight home and that we’ll talk soon.
I board my own flight on Saturday morning out of Logan Airport. I’m making a quick trip to New York, because there’s one final item I need to cross off my list.
34
Allie
“You can’t turn down the part.” Hannah looks outraged that I could even suggest such a blasphemous course of action.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a lead role on a sitcom! What if the show’s a huge hit? You could win an Emmy!”
I shrug and sip my coffee. I know I’m talking crazy right now. Believe me, Ira already dished out his own dose of disbelief earlier, begging me to accept the job. But when it comes to my career, I always go with my gut, and my gut is telling me this is not the role for me.
“I haven’t made my final decision yet,” I tell Hannah. “They gave me until Wednesday.” It’s Saturday night. That means four whole days to think it over.
My gut insists there’s nothing to think about.
I’m tempted to call Dean and ask for his advice, but I force myself not to. I’m so used to running my decisions by my boyfriend. I did it with Fletch, Sean, Dean. But nobody else can make this decision for me. It’s all on me.
Honestly, I’ve enjoyed being on my own these past couple weeks. It’s nice to just think about myself for once. But I miss Dean. I really, really do. I know he’s doing well, because I’ve been harassing Hannah for status reports. She said he’s working with the Hurricanes again. He’s gone out to Malone’s with the guys a few times, but only had a few beers, as far as Hannah knows.
There aren’t any pictures of him on Instagram or Facebook making out with other girls, but a part of me still worries about it. Dean is the most sexual guy I’ve ever met. I’m praying he’s jerking off a lot, because I don’t know what I’ll do if I find out he slept with someone else. I didn’t bring up the subject at the coffeehouse because I just assumed he’d keep his pants zipped while I took this time to clear my head.
That was selfish of me, maybe. But I love him, and if I hear that some chick tried to put her hands on him, I’ll beat her senseless. He’s mine. And I’m finally ready to claim him. The time apart succeeded in centering me, but now it’s time to get my man back.
The only problem? Dean is in New York visiting his parents for the night. Hannah mentioned it earlier, which triggered a flash of concern, because it’s weird that he would fly to Manhattan for only one night.
My ringing phone interrupts our coffee chat, and I’m even more concerned when I see my dad’s number.
A second later, his voice rumbles over the line. “I don’t want you to worry,” is how he starts, and oh my God, who says that? Now I’m worried!